It was a muggy July afternoon and all was peaceful on our quiet Atlanta street. I had just gotten my three-year-old, Alex, and his baby brother, Ben, down for a nap at the same time. An accomplishment so rare, I decided to treat myself to something completely self-indulgent: a shower. As I crept down the hall, giving the dogs my “bark and you die” look, I was struck by the distinct smell of something burning. An insidious smell. Like rubber. Or wiring.
My mind flashed to the terrifying scene of our neighbor’s house burning to the ground a couple years earlier. Then I remembered the electrical fire up the street. And the kitchen explosion behind us. My thoughts were raging out of control, just as I knew the impending fire soon would.
My husband was on an airplane coming home from Chicago, so it was all up to me. I darted from room to room, sniffing like a hound on the trail. It was everywhere. Upstairs, downstairs, in the hallway, in the kitchen.
Then I heard a car coming up the driveway. “Frank’s early. We’re saved,” I thought as I ran to greet him. Catapulting myself out the side door, I yelled “Quick. Something’s burning.”
He dropped his luggage on the driveway and dashed in, with me on his heels. We flew from room to room like Peter Pan and his shadow.
“Grab the kids and get out of the house,” he shouted as he dialed 9-1-1 and ushered the dogs outside. I took the stairs in two strides and soon had a bewildered Alex over one shoulder and my still-sleeping five month old on the other. “Everything’s okay,” I said, trying to use my most reassuring mommy voice. As I inhaled the fresh air of safety, I realized we’d made it. At least we had each other. But wait, Frank was still in there.
Before we got to the sidewalk, the trucks from Station 19 rounded the corner, sirens blaring. “Wow,” Alex said barely able to contain his excitement. “Are they coming to my house?” The firemen, dressed in their scary aardvark-looking suits, leapt from the giant red trucks and disappeared into the house.
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